Whispers of a Death
by charchi8987
Summary: After the suicide, Sherlock struggles to keep his sanity as he watches his only friends world fall down the deep end, and his brother become more distant than anyone he knew.
1. Talking to the Dead

"Well, good luck with that!" Moriarty pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, grabbed the gun and put it into his mouth, salivating with joy and pride. Sherlock only had a second to react. With a gasp he stumbled backwards, just as the deafening shot of the gun sprayed blood out of the back of Moriarty's head.

Sherlock stared down at the limp, smiling body lying on the floor. He immediately knew what he had to do. The killers, no longer could be called off, so therefore the last resort had to be used. Sherlock's body shook with sorrow, and he breathed heavily. Stepping onto the edge of the Hospital roof, he looked out onto the street. A cab pulled up, and out came John Watson, rushing out on the streets. Sherlock took out his phone and called him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you okay?" John walked toward the hospital, rushing and anxious.

"Turn and walk back the way you came." Sherlock's voice was harsh and sad, never had he felt such loneliness and sorrow.

"No! I'm coming in."

"Do as I say!" Sherlock's voice had risen to a desperate yell and he raised his hand motioned for John to move.

"Look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, god."

"I-I-I" Sherlock sobbed silently and inhaled quickly, a small tear falling down his cold cheeks. "I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they've said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock-"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell LeStrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"

Sherlock laughed. It was cold and sad and sarcastic. "Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Again, he laughed. But it died out and his face returned to the hollow look it had before. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." Another laugh. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No! Just stop it, stop this now."

"Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" His voice was high and shrill with the tears that he refused to let fall.

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do _what?_

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock turned around, looking at Moriarty's life bleeding out on the stone paved roof. "Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No! Don't – " John's words were cut off by Sherlock hanging up. Sherlock looked at the phone, and then let it drop behind him. He stepped forward, leaning over the roof. His destination held an audience now. Sherlock spread his arms out, and let himself step off the roof.

The fall seemed like forever. The cold winter air surrounded him and made a barrier around him. Feeling infinite, Sherlock closed his eyes, letting more tears fall silently down his cheeks. The moments he was falling felt like flying, and he had never felt freer. What did they call this? Free falling? When the speed finally caught him, he opened his eyes, and saw the ground rushing up to meet him.

Instead of ground, Sherlock was met with the soft rustle of garbage. He looked up onto the drivers seat, seeing one of the assassins that had taken residence on Baker St. The woman put a finger to her lips and made the truck shudder, knocking Sherlock to the ground. The impact of concrete on skin and bone was brutal. Sherlock could hear the screams and shrieks of bystanders and the rush of hospital employees. He could feel and hear the thump of his heart and see the blood rushing onto the sidewalk beside him. His vision was blurry and he closed his eyes, letting the blackness take up around him.

Sherlock woke to bright lights of white lamp hanging above him. He had a pounding headache right where his head was bandaged. His blurred vision focused on the thing leering over him. Sherlock blinked and narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're awake!" The girl with mouse brown hair smiled sadly at him.

Sherlock slowly sat up. "Molly? How long has it been? Did you do the things I asked? How's John? What happened at the - "

"Sherlock! Stop! You've only been out for a day. I did do what you said. Look, Sherlock. The nurses think your dead. When you were in 'critical condition' I unplugged your heart monitor and everyone thinks your dead. John is… he's in hospital. Shock. After they carried your body away he started screaming and crying… they need to sedate him. He's fine. You – you can see him."

Sherlock sighed. Sherlock looked down, suppressing the tears that threatened to pour down his cheeks. "I can't see him. Not now, not ever. I'm sorry, Molly. It's for the best." Sherlock leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for everything."

With those words, Molly knew it was time to leave Sherlock to his thoughts. She got up from the chair, walking briskly towards the door, her heels clicking in a rhythmic pattern behind her as the door clicked closed.

Sherlock leaned back onto the pillow, rubbing his temples and trying to ease away his headache. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, thinking of his dilemmas of the present and John and nothing else.

"I demand that you release me! I have been here for too long!' Sherlock screamed at the receptionist, dressed in the clothes that he had arrived into the hospital with.

"But Mr. Holmes – "

"Sherlock! Sherlock." Molly came running down the hall. She wore her lab coat and had dark circles under her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock. Yes, Andrea, release him. He's been here for a week. He's coming to live with me."

"Pronounce him dead?"

"Yes. Now. No one can know." The receptionist nodded and handed Molly a sheet to sign.

After giving back the pen, Molly dragged Sherlock away from the halls and down the winding halls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She finally led him out the back door.

"Pull up your coat."

"What?" Sherlock turned to her while continuing to keep up with her brisk pace.

"Pull up your coat. Now!" Molly pushed his head down and yanked up his collar. She pushed him down into a car, closing the door quickly and getting into the drivers side.

Sherlock sat up straight, staring out the windshield.

"Where are we going?" He asked strangely calmly. Molly started the engine and headed out the back gate of Bart's Hospital. She stared on straight ahead, not giving an answer.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock's voice was stern and sharp, like a demanding kid not getting what he wants.

"You're funeral was two days ago. And this is just –"

"No one came, did they?"

"Sherlock –"

"Molly, I'm not stupid. I knew no one would come." Fresh tears started to form in his eyes, but Sherlock Holmes was not a man to cry, so he wiped them before Molly could console him with her stupid caring words.

"Actually, Sherlock, lots of people came. LeStrade, John, Ms. Hudson… loads more people I couldn't remember."

"And Mycroft?"

"He showed up and well… things got out of hand. He got into a fight with John. John was yelling at him, telling him he didn't deserve to be at your funeral. Mycroft didn't say anything, but John was yelling things at him, oh Sherlock, just _horrible things!_ LeStrade had to hold John back and Mycroft just left."

Sherlock played the story in his head, as if he had been there to witness his own funeral. He could imagine the silent scene as people who didn't have any feelings for him watched is casket being lowered into the deep earth that was his deathbed. "Was anyone else there?"

"There was this one girl that I was curious about. She was tan with brown frizzy hair and she kept crying into Anderson's shoulder saying that it was her fault."

"Sgt. Donovan." Why had she felt guilt? It was her doing that had put him into hiding, her and Anderson's yet it was he who provoked him for many years and read their bodies and minds like it was a children's book. "You didn't answer my question, Molly."

"John and Mrs. Hudson are going to you're grave as we speak. It was suggested by John's therapist that he go and say a proper goodbye."

"So why am I going to my grave? To tell them I'm alive?" Sherlock snorted in mockery and disbelief.

Molly narrowed her eyes out the window. "You're going to hear what they had to say. Sherlock, I know you didn't want to do this, this whole alive-dead thing. You did right though."

"How is it right if someone that it actually dear to me, and Molly this it to _me_, is unhappy?"

"Even if it makes some people sad now, Sherlock, it will always turn out better in the end. Would you rather be alive and the only three friends you have dead?"

Sherlock went silent. "I have one more friend, Molly. Moriarty wasn't smart enough to count her. Molly, please. After all of the years of you putting up with my coldness and me being an ass, you still did this for me. You are the last friend, and the only friend, that actually knows that I am alive."

With this, Molly reached over and squeezed Sherlock's hand, then released and turned back to driving, and slowly pulled up behind the cemetery. "Come on." She said to Sherlock as she pulled the car into park and switched off the engine.

Cold winter air hit Sherlock as he opened the car door and followed the rushing Molly into the tiny forest that occupied a small amount of space on the cemetery area. "This way," She whispered, taking his hand and leading him behind a small covering of trees. The foliage was thick and Sherlock could barely see through some of the trees, but he had a clear view of the recently filled grave, which he could only guess was his. He brushed away some of the overgrowing branches, giving him a better view of the stone.

He saw the two figures standing there, one wearing the same tweed coat, collard shirt and pants. The other one clung to his arm, wearing a prune and black coat and gown. The woman clinging to his arms had tears streaking down her cheeks, while the man, much younger than her, soothed her with kind words.

"I'll leave you to your goodbyes, John." Mrs. Hudson walked away, wiping away the tears and makeup that smeared as she flustered over he wrecked appearance. John turned towards the grave, sighing heavily and clearing the tears that as a member of the army, refused to let tears stain his pale cheeks that froze with the cold.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock heard John speak since his fall. " Um. Hm. You... you told me once that you weren't a hero." John laughed a small, cynical laugh. "Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human."

John kept chocking on his words as sobs built up in his throat. "But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." John sighed heavily and finally let a tear fall down his face. "And so... there. I was so alone and I owe you so much."

John shook his head, smiled and turned away. Looking back at the gravestone he spoke once more. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me." John had the tears falling relentlessly down his cheeks, but he didn't seem to notice. "Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this." And with that, John straightened himself up in military fashion, turned around and walked away.


	2. Sights of a Ghost

"No, no, no, no!" Sherlock threw yet another crumpled piece of writing into the garbage. It landed on the top, and then rolled onto the ground, where several other papers had ended up. He sat back onto the couch, staring at the Word page that too remained empty. Sherlock had gotten a job writing articles about science for a local magazine under the name Alexander Baylock. The pay was little, but Sherlock needed what money he could get without being recognized.

"Nothing, Sherlock?" Molly grabbed her purse and her jacket, headed for the door. "I'm sure you'll get some inspiration soon. Well, I'm off. Body just dropped into Bart's and I'm needed. There's some leftover food in the fridge." Molly smiled and turned the door handle.

"Wait! I'll come with you!" Sherlock jumped up, excited to have something to do. Molly simply laughed and waved him off.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I know you miss this, but can't risk you being seen. Remember, if you're going out, try and stay in disguise. It had only been a week ago, Sherlock headed out to mail something and was recognized by a man in the street, claiming he was the dead fake England had come to know him as. Sherlock had laughed, waving him off, claiming to be his cousin, here to do some business with Mycroft. Sherlock had warded the man off, but inside he felt his shell crack. Many times he had to dress differently, act differently and go to places he hadn't been bothered to go to, mostly because they were below his standard or just not the sort of thing he fancied.

It had nearly been a month since his 'suicide' and he hadn't been able to find a flat he could afford on his own, so he moved in with Molly, paying for half the rent and supplying the house with food and cleaning when bored. And his job often bored him, as he had almost nothing to write about. Sherlock sighed, and closed the lid on the laptop, decided that he would go down to the pub he was regularly spotted at. Changing out of his robes and into more suitable clothing, he grabbed a tweed jacket that he had a certain distaste for, first because it was the sort of thing his real self would not be caught dead in, and second because he had pinched it from John. He could imagine John now, sitting back at the apartment, sipping tea from bone china cups and staring into the fireplace. Possibly he'd have one of his many girlfriends over, and wouldn't be lonesome for Sherlock's annoying and cold company at all. The thought of this saddened and brightened Sherlock in a confusing way as he walked out the door and down into the rainy streets of London.

Sherlock breathed in the heavy scent of whiskey and salt as he entered the noisy, crowded pub. He made his way through crowds of drunkards, crinkling his nose in distaste at them.

"Ah, Keith! The usual, I presume?" A tan man dried a glass behind the counter, addressing Sherlock as he sat down at the bar. Sherlock looked up at him, and read him as clearly as a book for the poor sighted. _Fight with the girlfriend, agitated, annoyed._ All of these signs were too clear to him. "Sure, Adam."

"Adam, you're finest vodka, please. Bad week at the office, and I'm the mood for a little break." A posh familiar voice spoke behind him.

"'Course, Mr. 'olmes. Be right with you." Adam strolled along to the other end of the bar, placing glass and selecting brightly colored liquids for assorted drinks.

As Sherlock's beer was handed to him, he froze. The name. The bartender hadn't been talking to him, he wasn't known by that name anymore. The man slid into the barstool next to him, smelling of expensive aftershave and cigarette smoke. The man wore an expensive suit, at least 700 pounds, and he walked and spoke of a man of high power. Sherlock didn't dare look at him, scared that his brother would recognize him. Sherlock only knew one thing; he had to leave unnoticed and incognito.

"Thanks, Adam." Sherlock spoke softly, grabbed the beer bottle and turned to go, but him being left alone was something that was unlikely to happen, and it didn't.

"Keith! You forgot you're wallet, mate!" Sherlock heard but didn't care, and he kept walking through the heated crowds of people. He would have kept walking, out onto the London streets had a person not grabbed his jacket and pulled it back.

"Sir, your wallet." The man that smelled of whiskey and smoke had taken his jacket cloth into his hands, pulling him back and handing him the leather bound wallet.

"Thank you." Sherlock didn't turn his head, scared and trembling now that he might be found.

"Could I get a name?"

"Keith Ruben."

"Ah. I'm Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft looked at him peculiarly, surveying what little he could of the man.

"Pleasure." Sherlock extended his arm and shook quietly, while doing his best to keep behind is coat and hat. But to Sherlock's luck, a drunkard that was in a fight, sprawled back and hit Sherlock, knocking him over.

Sherlock turned over as quick as he could, searching for his cap that had been taken off his head when he fell and still trying to remain hidden from Mycroft. But the voice that spoke behind assured Sherlock that remaining hidden was futile.

"Sherlock? I – Is that you?" Mycroft's eyes widened and his voice shook when he spoke. With haste, Sherlock grabbed his cap, forced it back on and walked out, before Mycroft could figure out what happened and follow Sherlock to Molly's.

A block away from the crowded pub, Sherlock broke into a sprint. He flew past closing shops and down alleyways until he reached the small back alley car park behind Molly's apartment. He slowed down to a halt and panted, catching his breath. Peering out from behind the building, he walked forward. He saw a car pull up and saw Mycroft Holmes exit the vehicle. Sherlock pressed himself against the building, praying that he wouldn't be seen in what dim light lit the alley. After surveying the area, Mycroft returned into the safety of his car, and with a start, drove away.

Sighing with relief, Sherlock walked up the steps to Molly's apartment and walked up to the 5th floor. Turning the key and hearing the silence inside, he assumed Molly hadn't returned or possibly went out for dinner or drinks with a friend of hers. Taking his coat off, he felt his a vibration in his right pocket and he reached and took his phone out. He'd acquired a new phone number in order to stay hidden, as it was possible that his old number could be recognized by anybody because it was on his website 'The Science of Deduction." He hadn't had the heart to take it down, as it held many memories. Every day, he checked John's blog. The viewership had reached 4000 followers and this filled Sherlock with a bittersweet feeling. The blog was a documentary of their cases together, of their time together. Courtesy of the blog, Sherlock was up-to-date with the on goings in John's life. Back in therapy, he was forced to continue writing it, as the John he knew would have abandoned the blog immediately after Sherlock's death.

Turning his attention the phone, he noticed he had a new message. **I got your number from Adam. Get in the car. This needs to be dealt with. – MH**.

Sherlock sighed, and put the phone back into his pants pocket. If he didn't follow suit, men would come in and force him into the car, and Sherlock didn't want to cause Molly the trouble.

Out on the streets, in front of the paved road where Molly lived, a black car with tinted windows waited. A large man in an expensive suit stood there, checking his watch. When he raised his head, his gaze fixed on Sherlock, and he opened the car door. "Please, sir. Mr. Holmes waits your acquaintance." The man had said when Sherlock had hesitated into getting into the car, but seeing no other solution, Sherlock got into the car and closed the door behind him.

The ride to the office took 20 minutes. To Sherlock's incredulity, Mycroft wasn't with him. Possibly took another car back to his work. Guarded by two of Mycroft's trusted employees, whom he recognized from when they took him out of his when he was still dressed in his robe and led him to the Irene Adler case.

Sherlock walked through the cold marble hallways until he reached the dark oak door marked _Mycroft Holmes_. He opened the door slowly. The room was cold and smelt of ginger and whiskey. Mycroft stood at the back, carefully selecting a crystal bottle of musty smelling spirits and pouring an ounce for himself. Sherlock stopped before the large desk that was covered in assorted papers, bits of code and files with names even Sherlock had trouble pronouncing.

"Mycroft-"

"Just sit." Sherlock listened to Mycroft's tired and pained voice and obeyed, sitting down at the char in front of his desk. Mycroft joined him, carrying what now looked like more of an ounce of vodka.

"A month. That's how long I've been reconsidering and regretting every terrible thing I've ever done to you. I was reliving child hood memories and realizing that I was such a terrible older brother. And _you're alive? _Why did you lie, Sherlock? Do you not know how much this has pained me?"

Knowing that this was more of a statement than a question, Sherlock remained quiet, with his hands folded on his lap and looking straight into Mycroft's eyes.

"Honestly Mycroft, it wasn't you that I had really cared about after my death. I had other, more important things on my mind."

Mycroft leaned back into his chair, resting his hands on his protruding stomach. "Like what, Sherlock? What could be more important than family?"

Sherlock looked around at the room. The walls were white and decorated with bookshelves and old paintings, while the carpet was a deep navy. _Dull_.

"Please, Mycroft. Have you ever cared about family?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "And besides, even if you had, you never cared about me."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sherlock. Not everything needs your dumb wit and innuendo."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock looked at the desk, and saw the cake crumbs etched into the keyboard. "Coming along well?"

"That's not of concern right now."

"Oh? You've been binge eating again, Mycroft. I can tell."

"As I said before, not of concern."

Sherlock rested his fingertips against his chapped lips, and his thumbs under his chin. "And what is?"

"This situation. You're 'suicide'. Why?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, why?"

Sherlock whipped his head around to face Mycroft. "You know bloody well why," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. "Sherlock, I had no idea – "  
"Save your words on someone who cares, Mycroft. You told a criminally insane man who had an obsession with me _every little detail_ about me." Sherlock leaned as far forward as possible, and spoke in a barely audible whisper. "What did you expect him to do? Leave as if nothing had happened and do no wrong? You, Mycroft. You're the reason I'm hiding away in a loft all day, scared to show my face too often. Because of you, Moriarty threatened the only people I cared about. My death was the only way to stop them from getting hurt."

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, already tired of his insufferable brothers company.

"Sherlock, you jumped off a building, you pretended to disappear, for me?"

"Please, Mycroft. Moriarty wasn't threatening your existence. Don't even be flattered in any way. It was Mrs. Hudson, Detective LeStrade and John's life I was scared for."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his temples, trying to rid himself of a headache, which he'd had for at least 6 months. Their mother had come after the funeral and had stayed with Mycroft. She hadn't cared about what had happened, only if Mycroft was okay. It sickened him now, realizing that it was his fault why Sherlock was no longer the favorite Holmes son.

Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, Mycroft. You're easier to read than a book for the sight impaired. I know mummy came, I saw her in the train station. What, she couldn't spare the time to show up to her own son's funeral? Was she too busy framing every single award and polishing every trophy her _favorite_ son won?"

"Don't talk about her like that."

"I have every right."

"No you don't."

Sherlock stood up in a rage. "I have every right to say what I want about our mother! Because of what you started is why she disowned me, Mycroft! Stop your stupid noble talk and face it! This stupid childish feud, it was your entire fault. Everything. Everything was your fault!" Sherlock screamed as he spoke, his knuckles turned white as they clenched into fists. Noticing his labored breathing and anger, Sherlock relaxed. Regaining his composure, he sat back down, refusing to look at his brother who seemed to exacerbate situations with every breath he took.

"Who are you staying with, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was despondent when he spoke.

"Molly Hooper."

"Smart choice. I presume it was her who made your disappearance so easy?"

"Yes."

"Well, it all makes sense. Go home and pack your stuff. You're moving in with me."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, dear brother, it's going to take a lot more than the king and a couple of his knights to make me move." Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket, and nodded to Mycroft. "Good evening, Mycroft. And do remember to keep the countries happy, if not it causes such bad traffic."

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's sleeve. "Please, Sherlock. Let me make things right."

"You won't leave me alone until I agree, will you?"

"You're right, as always. I won't."

Sherlock sighed, tired and annoyed. "I'm not staying, Mycroft. Ask your questions and be done so I can continue my quiet life in Molly's apartment."

Mycroft released the cloth between his hands and leaned back into his chair. He stared quizzically at Sherlock, which just seemed to irritate Sherlock's already foul mood.

"You've got a question, Mycroft. Just ask it, already. I'm staying the night, anyway." Sherlock snapped, sitting back down into his chair.

"How did you do it?"

"It was one of the assassins. I think Molly asked one of them to drive a garbage truck and intend for me to land on it. Also, that biker that knocked over John? I think that was intended so John wouldn't see. A piece of glass still cut my head in the truck, that's why there was so much blood."

Mycroft stayed silent at this. "Have you seen John?"

"That is not of concern, Mycroft. I don't need to explain my feelings to you."

"It's a start to improving our relationship. And besides, if you don't want to answer, you could just leave. However it is absolutely pouring outside."

"And since I was eight I haven't had much a taste for water. I find it a bit, suffocating, don't you?" Sherlock's head swiveled around to face Mycroft, eyes blazing with hostility.

"Again, Sherlock. You always dwell on things that should have been forgiven and forgotten."

"Forgiven and forgotten? You were my brother."

"And it was a stupid childish feud about who was mummy's favorite."

"A stupid childish feud? If it was stupid, you seemed too serious about it, the ways you provoked me and the ways you strived to be the favorite."

"Just answer the question, Sherlock. Have you seen him?"

"No."

A long silence entered the room like a poisonous gas. Sherlock had closed his eyes, locked up in some happy memory, which would bring him to tears if he kept thinking on it, and Sherlock _never _dwelled on things that would crack his unemotional mask.

"How… is he, um… Is he ok?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, sighing. He had kept up with John's on goings after Sherlock's death, scared that one wrong move could tip him over the edge. From what Mycroft had observed, the Doctor hadn't been doing his best. The cameras that he had installed in 221B Baker St. showed the effects of Sherlock's suicide. Now living on his own and Mrs. Hudson allowing him to stay with no fee, John had turned for the worse. What cabinets used to be filled with old porcelain and cans of food were now covered in liquor bottles, both full and empty. When Mycroft had come around for a most unwelcome visit, Mycroft only had one thing to say. "You're becoming like Harriet." And for that comment, Mycroft was punched in the face, and was sent off with insulting jibes, and a bleeding nose. Mycroft had exited the door and turned around to say one final thing, but saw John collapsed on the floor in tears, whispering secrets to an unknown god and praying for Sherlock's existence.

"He's fine."

**Ok, not my best. Was a little uninspired. Sorry the Mycroft scene was a little long. Anywhoo review please (: any feedback is a great help!**


	3. Water quenches Fire

**Hi (: sorry it took me a while to update. This chapter is a bit long and boring but worth it (: review and I shall update faster!**

Hot water surrounded Sherlock as he bathed his young body. He fiddled with the rubber duck that buoyed on the bath water. Whenever Sherlock's mother troubled him and forced him to take a bath, he thought. His mother always said that he thought too much, but other than that, Sherlock was lucky if she even gave him a comment, but never spared Mycroft a compliment. Although today had been the day where Mycroft was paid less attention, and mummy's coos and accolades were turned towards Sherlock for the first time in many years.

Sherlock leaned back and sucked in deeply, sinking his head under water. He'd gotten a 98 on an IQ test that Mycroft had taken 4 years prior. And what had Mycroft gotten? A 94. And weren't these tests supposed to be harder these days? Sherlock smiled happily underwater, proud to have outshone Mycroft and earn his mothers attention.

Having held his breath for as long as he could, Sherlock went up for air. He had barely broken the surface when a strong hand held him down. Sherlock spluttered and tried to hold on to what remaining air he had while he struggled under the strong hold of his assailant. He flailed underwater, splashing at the surface. His head hurt from the lack of air and he his vision was going blurry. Giving up, Sherlock ceased his tries for release. He set his hands down and relaxed, letting every last bit of air escape from him in bubbles.

The hand that held him down sharply pulled him up by his hair, sending a new jolt of pain down Sherlock's spine. Out of the water, Sherlock spluttered as he tried to inhale as much air as he could. His head throbbed and his eyes hurt. Calming down, Sherlock looked at the person who nearly killed him.

"Mycroft! Why did you do that?" Sherlock gasped when he saw his brother standing before him with deep hatred in his eyes. With one swift move, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled Sherlock close to him. Sherlock cried with pain and fear as he was yanked towards his older brother.

"You might have won Mother's admiration, brother, but it wont last. You're the runt of the gene pool, the lower one. You wont succeed. By next month, Mother wont pay you any mind and she'll be giving me all the praise." Mycroft spat these words at his little brother, and then release his grip. Sherlock trembled and began to tear up. Leaning back, he hugged his knees, for once scared of his older brother. Mycroft looked almost satisfied, then proceeded to force Sherlock under once more.

Sherlock was more prepared. He had breathed in sharply right before he had gone under. Looking up, he saw the unmistakably grin on Mycroft's face to be a mixture of content and loathing. His brother grabbed for his mouth and forced the air he had been holding out. The throbbing in his head grew more intense and he had a black flash every time his heart beat. And his heartbeat was death's drum ringing in his ears, getting louder with every moment. The water seemed to be getting hotter, and Sherlock swore he was burning under water. It was as if a fire had been lit in the water, intending for him to boil in the bath.

"Sherlock!" A faint voice called, high pitched in panic. It was feminine, and very familiar.

"Sherlock!" Louder.

"Sherlock! Wake up! Sherlock!" The shout was deafening.

"Sherlock! Please! Get up!" _Molly?_

"SHERLOCK!" The loud call of his name woke Sherlock from his dream. Or flashback. Either way, it wasn't pleasant and he was glad to be awoken. But something was wrong, and he could tell by the heat that was pressing against his perspiring skin and Molly's frantic cries. Sherlock jerked upwards, opening his eyes. And all he saw was orange and yellow dancing across the walls and furniture.

Fire. It blanketed everything like thick snow. The heat was unbearable as Sherlock rose from the couch and tried to weave through the bits of singed ceiling that had fallen off. Smoke and fire swallowed what oxygen remained and Sherlock yet again found it difficult to breath. Flames licked and snapped at his legs, burning off cloth and biting his skin underneath. Ashes fell down from the ceiling like heavy fall rain and Sherlock was soon covered in ash and dust.

"Sherlock! Help!" Molly's shrieked in fear as a plank fell in her path, blocking her way.

"Molly! Don't move. I'm coming!"

"Sherlo-" Molly cried, but didn't finish her sentence. A fiery plank fell and hit her in the head, knocking her out onto the ashen floor.

Sherlock, more frantic than he had been since the weeks and days before his death, ran as well and as fast as he could through the smoking and flaming debris that littered the apartment. Sherlock pushed away the overturned furniture and the parts of the ceiling and wall that had given way. Finding the flaming block that had barred her way and prevented her escape, Sherlock bend down and lifted it. Flames wrapped around his fingers and singed his already burnt body. He pulled the plank that had been lodged between the small stairwell and the couch and threw it towards the fireplace. Sherlock climbed the stairwell with haste, reaching out towards the fallen Molly. She lay there in her nightie and bathrobe, which had caught fire. He ripped off the flaming material and gathered Molly in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder, his right arm around her waist and his left carrying her legs.

Sherlock heard the sirens outside; knowing some neighbor living in the apartment next door must have called the fire department. He ran with Molly in his arms – she was surprisingly light- towards the door. He pushed the door open and ran down the steps to the first floor.

When Sherlock finally got outside, water was raining down onto the apartment building, trying to quench the flames. A police force had gathered among the firefighters and was questioning neighbors and bystanders._ Arson_. That was a word Sherlock had heard from the distance.

"Help!" Sherlock cried, running towards the police force, bouncing Molly in his arms. "Someone help!"

"This way!" A policeman called, waving Sherlock and the unconscious Molly towards an ambulance. Sherlock hurried towards the blinking truck and carefully laid Molly down in the back. Paramedics immediately started attending to her wounds, and tried to treat Sherlock's but he waved them off, perplexed. _How had the fire started?_ No fire had been in the fireplace, but Sherlock was positive the fire originated from their apartment.

"Excuse me, sir. Could I get a name?" A policeman touched his shoulder, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts.

Sherlock slowly turned towards the policeman, even more wary now that Mycroft had spotted him, and he was a known figure to the force.

"Keith Ruben."

"Sir, You're going to have to be questioned over there by the police car." He directed Sherlock towards the officer talking to the neighbors, and Sherlock thanked whatever higher power he did not recognize the officer.

When Sherlock was about 3 meters away from the questioning officer, Sherlock stopped. He recognized the man he had tried to keep up with without tipping his hat. _D.I. Greg LeStrade _the name card read and he could just make out the woman who Molly claimed to weep at his funeral. Why were the Detective Inspector and his somewhat obedient frizzy-haired sidekick doing at a fire? As Detective Inspector LeStrade would have said 'Not our division.'

"You, sir. Come here." Detective Inspector LeStrade pointed at him, and Sherlock walked cautiously over to the officer.

"Name?"

"Keith Ruben."

"Oh, you're Molly's flat mate then? She usually does the autopsies for the cases I work on."

"Molly doesn't talk about her work much with me." Sherlock spoke quietly, and wondered why Greg LeStrade hadn't noticed whom the man standing before him was.

"Oh, so you're _that_ kind of flat mate?" LeStrade raised his eyebrows and smiled good-naturedly. Sherlock just shook his head.

"She's just a friend I'm staying with until I get back on my feet."

"Ah. Do you know where the fire started?" LeStrade spoke casually, as if he couldn't really care less about the fire.

"Not really. Was it an accident?" Sherlock had that pressing feeling, that nagging feeling that something was wrong with the fire. The night Mycroft had found him and the building he had been staying in caught on fire? It wasn't a coincidence, and the cogs in Sherlock's head that hadn't been used in a while seemed to oil themselves down and start turning again.

"We think it was arson."

"Arson?" Sherlock tried to make his voice surprised, but the predictability of the case was already clear. "Why would anyone set fire to a five floor apartment building?"

"Who knows? And honestly, we can't even begin to find out where it originated, the blasted fire just wont stop burning."

"Best of luck finding the culprit, Inspector."

"Where are you going?" LeStrade's voice called after Sherlock as he slowly walked away from the crowd of neighbors and bystanders.

"Checking if my flat mate is ok."

As soon as Sherlock was reassured that the still unconscious Molly was stable, Sherlock took off. He walked down the streets of London, frantic and unsure of where to go.

Frantically checking the pockets of his robe, Sherlock found his phone. He punched in John's number and held the phone up to his ears. It rang out and Sherlock grew more panicked as he felt more alone. He rang again and it was silent. Sherlock almost hung up when he heard a noise on the other end.

Sherlock held the phone up to his ears and heard the glass break. "_Shit,_" A man slurred his voice from behind the phone.

"Hello?" The voice was soft and quiet, as if he'd just been awoken, but more slurred and jumbled.

Sherlock didn't answer, deducting John's situation from what he could hear of the Doctor's clumsy foothold and garble. _Click._ Sherlock hung up the phone, so sure now of where he was going. And the man spoke of trusting him? How could he when he so blatantly lied about the subject that Sherlock found most important?

The cabbie dropped Sherlock off behind the building. Sherlock paid the man and walked in from the back entrance. People stared at him in his slippers and robe but Sherlock didn't care. The people in polished suits couldn't waver the rage, mistrust and frustration he felt at Mycroft.

_Ding!_ The noise indicated that Sherlock had reached Mycroft's floor and he sauntered down the hall, finally reached the glass door marked _Mycroft Holmes. _Sherlock flung open the door and was delighted to see Mycroft's unsuspecting face at his sudden entrance.

"Sherlock, I do think that you coming into my office at this late an hour is rather atrocious. Especially with soot covering your face and you looking like you just hopped out of bed."

"Well, my flat mate is knocked unconscious in an ambulance and my apartment is on fire, where else am I to go?" Sherlock laughed coldly and sat down on the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft was reading over a safe plan that no one could unlock. _Dull._

"Ah, yes. I heard about the fire. Tell me, have you accepted my offer to stay with me?" Mycroft spoke quietly, his gaze furrowed on the plans in front of him.

"Why would I stay with you?" Sherlock folded his hands on his lap, staring curiously at his brother.

"Because you can trust me, and you should trust me."

Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "Lies."

Mycroft's pen stopped. He looked up at Sherlock, his gaze hard "I am no liar. What good reason do I have to lie to you?"

"See, brother. I was thinking that too, and I didn't come up with a reason that you would yet you have lied to me. Twice, actually."

"Twice, Sherlock?" Mycroft smiled a little, leaning back against his chair. "Do tell."

"Tell me again, how is John doing?" Sherlock stared at him with such hatred that he had never felt towards his brother. _Trust_ his mind sneered at him. _Since when do we trust anyone, let alone Mycroft?_

Mycroft went white. "He's fine. Just as I said."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock had a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes reflected cruelty and distrust. "So tell me, he isn't perhaps, oh I don't know, gone off the deep end?" Sherlock stood up and leaned forward, resting his hands against the desk. "He hasn't found comfort in alcohol or drugs?"

"How would you know?" Mycroft looked at him coldly, wary of his brother's deduction abilities.

Sherlock stood straight and released his temper. "How wouldn't I know?" he roared at Mycroft. "Mycroft, you said I could trust you. Hadn't even been a day before you went and lied again! Of all subjects in which you could have lied, why the one I was most sensible about?" Sherlock shouted all these words at Mycroft. Tears had sprung in his eyes but he wiped them away, careful to not show any more feeling in his voice.

"Before I came here, Mycroft, I called him. I could hear it. Do you think I don't know what a drunkard sounds like?"

"Sherlock. Please, I just didn't want to make it worse between us than it already is! You had already found it so hard to trust me when we were kids, I wanted us to mend that relationship now."

"How could I trust you, Mycroft? One test score I got higher than you. It was one test score!"

"Sherlock, I truly regret what I did."

Sherlock swung around, not caring if the emotions he always concealed behind layers of impenetrable masks showed. "You tried to drown me, Mycroft! Do you not think you are the reason I never had any friends? Do you not think you are the reason I have so many fears? Do you not think you are the reason that I am so eager to prove myself?"

"Sherlock, I – I don't know what to say."

Sherlock regained his composure. "An apology, perhaps."

"I'm sorry."

"Good." Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, now tired of his brothers fabrication. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"What was the second lie?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. He hadn't said her name in over a year.

"Irene Adler."

"What about her? John told you that – "

"John told me what you wanted him to tell me. When he brought the file up, he did his best to conceal it, but I saw it." Sherlock laughed again. "In witness protection in America? Really, Mycroft? I saw what you wrote."

Mycroft sighed, resting his hands on his protruding belly. "So you know she's dead."

"Oh, that's where you are wrong."

Mycroft's gaze darted from the floor to Sherlock. "What?"

"She isn't dead."

"She was executed in Karachi, Sherlock. I investigated this myself."

"Then why don't you think your facts are wrong?" Sherlock paced the floor.

"Explain." Mycroft beckoned Sherlock's words.

"You know when I took that case in Brazil? Instead I flew to Karachi, Pakistan. I know how to hide, brother, and I knew that she was going to be executed. I'm the one that was supposed to be leaving her headless, but instead, I helped her escape."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why, SHERLOCK?" Mycroft's voice rose to a loud bellow at his annoyance at Sherlock's help of a fugitive.

"I loved her."

Mycroft laughed. "You aren't capable of such emotions."

Sherlock stopped pacing and snapped his gaze at Mycroft. He felt tears beginning to form in his eyes but he didn't care. Mycroft's words stung him, but he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing.

"You wouldn't know."

When Sherlock had arrived at the hospital it was 4:00am. Only a few lights were on in the hallways and the rooms smelt of antiseptic. The nurse behind the desk had fallen asleep, her head buried in her paperwork. Sherlock moved her arms carefully, trying to see where the patients were kept.

_241_. That was the room where Sherlock hurried. The doctor's jacket he had acquired was too big for him and was even large over the robe. When he finally reached the room, Sherlock was frantic. He needed to know what Molly knew, to confirm the suspicions that rose in his head.

She lay on the hospital bed, machines beeping and liquid flowing into her bloodstream. She wore a hospital gown and her hair was tossed onto the pillows, and she most likely hadn't woke since she was knocked unconscious in the fire. Sherlock bent over her, and in the least gentle way possible, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she stirred.

"Sherlock... Sherlock!" She whispered menacingly as her eyes fluttered open.

"Sorry. Molly – "

"Why am I in hospital?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the time she was wasting.

"You got knocked out during the fire and I carried you out."

Molly looked at him quizzically, trying to imagine Sherlock doing something like that. "Thank you."

"Yes, yes. Now, I need you to tell me, was there anyone at the apartment today?"

Molly rubbed her temples and narrowed her eyes, concentrating on a memory that seemed so distant. She gasped and spoke quietly.

"There was a man. I didn't catch his face. I got in at about 8:00 and you had gone out. He was in the corner of the living room, examining the bookshelf. I told him to leave and threatened to call the cops. I didn't know what he was doing. He left and said 'Nice to see you again, Molly'."

Sherlock breathed hard as he deducted everything that she had said. _Nice to see you again._ It could only be one person. _ Nice to see you again. Nice to see you again._

Sherlock gave Molly's hand a quick squeeze, and walked out the door. He let the Doctor's coat fall down behind him as he walked down towards the back entrance.

Just as he reached the door, Sherlock dug into his pockets for his phone. Unable to find the phone blind, Sherlock emptied his pockets. _Keys, writing paper, phone… writing paper?_ Sherlock was attentive and never missed anything, and he never recalled taking paper with him. Sherlock always thought it was best not to use paper, as it could be traced as easily as string attached to a bomb.

Sherlock unfolded the crinkled paper and read what was written. He stared at it, dumbfounded. He had stopped moving, as this had shocked him, and things _never_ came as a surprise to him. It was supposed to be over. He had sacrificed his life for it to end.

**We both can play dead, but at least I know how to stay hidden.**


	4. Recovery

**Hi! This chapter is a bit boring, and I was a little uninspired. For everyone that followed put this story on alert, there is no more wait! Virtual cookies for all! ( : : ) ( : : )**

John felt the gravel dig into his face as the biker hit him to the ground. The force of the impact made John's head spin and his vision blurry. A whining noise rang in his ear. John pushed himself up, running to the body that lay bleeding on the concrete sidewalk.

John tried his best to push through the medical personnel that had gathered around the body.

"Please, he's my friend, my friend…" He whimpered as they let him through.

John placed two fingers on his cold neck. Blood dripped onto his wrist but he didn't care. He waited. For the beat. And he waited. There was no beat.

_There was… no pulse…_ No. He couldn't be dead. It was just another one of his petty games, another desperate attempt that he could outsmart anyone. Yet somewhere deep in the back of his mind, etched into John's brain, he knew that this was no game.

John noticed that people had held him back and that tears were running down his face as he reached for his friend. He cried out in an attempt to free himself from the tangle of limbs that stopped him from reaching the body. _No pulse. No pulse. No pulse._

John woke with a start. The same nightmare reoccurred every night with the same person. Sweat had started on his forehead as he lay back on the couch of 221B Baker St.

Since the fall, John had found condolences in the alcohol. Many nights he'd come home in a drunken stupor, and lie down on the couch, hoping sleep would overcome him. And it rarely did. John didn't sleep, and when he did, the nightmares were something he rarely wanted to see. John, nearly everyday, felt overcome with fatigue, and Mrs. Hudson had given him sleeping pills.

John took them whenever he felt need, hoping that they would bring him easy slumber and dreamless nights. But it wasn't the case. He found that the pills simply prolonged the dreams of blood splatter and suicide and made them worse, adding details he hadn't noticed before.

John felt silent tears fall down his face. He sobbed and sobbed as he had done many nights when he had gotten particularly drunk, and his emotions were heightened. Then John realized something.

Since his discharge from the army, John had had reveries of his service in Afghanistan. He saw the men scuffling along the desert territory, weapons in hand. He saw the man who shot him. But now instead of wartime memories, he had the repeated vision of his best friends death. He saw him smile while his face went red with tears or cold, John couldn't tell. He heard him say 'Goodbye John' and the heart wrenching terror John felt when he heard the click of the phone hanging up could not be described. He saw the man open his arms wide, as if to engulf John in a hug, but instead saw him tip forward, flying down to embrace the ground.

The silence in the room sent a new wave of sobs and a fresh stream of tears. _This was how I met him_, John remembered. He had another memory and longing for the battlefield when he cried that morning. He had met Mike Stanford in the park, who had taken John to the most amazing man he had ever met. This was how his day started. It was déjà vu, but John new that he would never see the man again.

John rose from the couch and wiped the tears away from his face. He sighed inwardly, feeling the ache in his heart more than ever with the throbbing hangover. He got up on his stiff knees, the joints cracking when he stood properly. John walked slowly forward, tripping over his own feet as he rubbed his temples. He stumbled to floor, knocking over various items on his way down. Glass bottles shattered musically as they hit the floor.

"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out from downstairs.

John got himself up before yelling out "Fine."

Bits of glass dug into John's hand. Blood oozed slowly out of his cuts and dripped onto the debris-ridden floor. He delicately picked out the large bits of glass, placing each small bit into the trash. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed the number.

"Hello?" The kind feminine voice picked up almost immediately.

"Sarah? Hi. I was wondering if you'd like to come over?" John hadn't seen her in a while, and even though there relationship had demised, they were still good friends.

"Is something wrong?" Her tone was worried and filled with concern.

"Oh, um, I'm fine. Please could you just come over?"

"I'll be there in 10." _Click._ The phone went off.

John sat in pain while waiting for Sarah to arrive. He had been granted two weeks off of work to cope with his loss, but it hadn't been enough, and Sarah and helped him plea for an extended leave, which was granted.

"John?" Sarah's voice was heard from down the stairs. "John? Where are you?"

"I'm up here."

John heard the light footsteps on the stairs and the small creak of the old floorboards as she made her way up. Seeing the mess he was in, she put her bag down.

"Oh, John." She sighed and ran towards him, engulfing him in a hug that just screamed pity and concern. His hands patted her back, and the glass dug further in to his hands. He winced, and she pulled away.

She took a medical kit out of her bag, and pulled out tweezers, alcohol and bandages. Sarah sat John down and surveyed his hands, carefully plucking out the pieces of glass that had etched into his hands. The wounds bled slightly, and she dosed them in alcohol. Even though John was used to the stinging sensation of wound treatment, tears still sprung in his eyes. She delicately wrapped his hands in the antiseptic bandage before helping clean up the glass, alcohol, and blood that decorated the floor like paint splatter on a canvas.

When they finished cleaning up the glass and John had put the kettle on for tea, they sat down side by side on the couch. John looked down in embarrassment, ashamed that he had to call Sarah because of his mess-ups and because he felt another panic attack creeping up. Sarah looked at him solemnly, trying to decode his expression.

"John, what's wrong?" Her hand moved across to his, giving it a squeeze.

He looked down, not wanting to say anything. But Sarah was clever, and she didn't care that they once dated; she was still a good friend to him.

"It's the nightmares again, isn't it?" She pressed, speaking softly. "John, you need to tell me what's wrong. Doctor's orders."

John sighed in heavily. He knew it would be best to tell Sarah but he couldn't find the words. "I keep seeing faces, so many faces." John said quietly, taking his hand out of Sarah's and burying his face in it. "I see his face, smiling with a cold laugh right before he falls down. I see Moriarty's taunting face, I see his henchman knocking me out to cover me in explosives. And when they took me to the pool and told me what to say to him, the look on Sherlock's face was so unbearable, like for a brief second he thought that I would betray him. And god knows, I would never do that." John wiped the tears before they fell, and looked directly at her. "I just don't know what to do with myself anymore."

Sarah looked at him, her eyes swimming with sympathy for John. "John, it's going to be alright." She engulfed him in a hug, and tears began to fall down John's cheeks because he knew that Sarah couldn't see. "John, he wouldn't want this. You know that. He wouldn't want to see his best friend go off the bloody deep end." She pulled apart and spoke strongly. "You know what you need to do."

"Kill myself?" He looked at her, and smiled a little.

"No!" She looked at him shocked, then realized that he was joking, and returned the smile. "No, John. For your sake, get better. You go back to work on Monday, remember? And you need to do this for him."

John looked away, scared at what 'getting better' meant. It would mean no more numbness. No more condolence. No more wasting away in something that took his pain away.

"Please? John, for him?"

John wiped the tears that had once again sprung in his eyes. "Fine."

Sarah embraced him, almost knocking him over. When she pulled back, she was grinning. "Right, John. I did this with my father a while back, and I'm gonna do this with you." She hopped up from the couch, and went around to the bottles that say carelessly around the apartment. She knocked them all into a trash bag, each bottle shattering after the next. Emptying the cupboards of liquor, she spoke brightly. "The first step is getting rid of it all." She went through every single cupboard and drawer, and even found the secret drawer that John had used when LeStrade had tried to rid him of his habit.

"Not all of it!" John protested when Sarah walked down the stairs and placed the trash bag in the dumpster outside. He didn't want to rid himself of the pleasure entirely, just maybe lessen it a little.

"All of it." Sarah said firmly, as she walked back up the stairs. John knew that it would be the best if every last drop was taken out of his reach, but what would he do to take away the pain that left him sobbing?

Sarah stood before him, hands on her hips, surveying him. John stood up slowly, unsure of what to do.

"What are you going to do then?" John asked, wondering what he could do at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

Sarah looked around the room, her eyes darting back and forth as she took in every inch of the still-cluttered apartment. "I've got to get back to work. What about you?" She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bags.

"I'm going to go visit someone, I think."

"Not… not Sherlock's grave?" Sarah questioned quietly and looked embarrassed when she did, as if she regretted saying what she did.

"No. I think I'm going to visit an old friend." John pulled on his coat and stood before her. "Come, I'll walk you down."

Sarah hailed a cab after hugging John one last time, and was off. John got into the next one, and drove off of Baker St.

As soon as John stepped out of the cab, he was bombarded with photos from paparazzi. He had thought that since a month had passed, the media would have the sense to leave him alone. But no, he was not left in the peace that he had tried to seek out from the darkest pits of his mind, he was instead swarmed with flashing cameras and notepads. Why were they waiting outside the police station anyway?

"Mr. Watson! Over here!" John turned his head and was blinded by the flash of a camera.

"I'm Maria Turner, Daily Mail. Tell me, what of these arsons, Mr. Watson?"

"Is it true that you have become an alcoholic after the death of so-called genius, Sherlock Holmes? Is it true that you haven't even been able to face a day at work because of your distraught over the suicide of a clearly unstable fake-genius psychopath?" A man jumped in front, and sneered those words with such distaste that John was taken aback at the ferocity. Every single reporter was silent, not a single camera flashed. John surveyed the man, trying to analyze what he could. The man had sleek dark brown hair, and a cap covered his face. He wore faded jeans and a collared shirt, paired with a jacket that John quite liked.

When John didn't answer, and just stared dumbfounded at the man, the man grinned, highlighting every dimple and crease in his face. _That grin, it was so familiar. _"And, Doctor Watson, is it true that Moriarty was all a lie? A phony that the late Mr. Holmes created for his own psychotic amusement? I read it in the papers so it must be true." The grin reached ear to ear, and John was so angry, he could feel the steam bubbling inside him. In his rage, John grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him so close he could feel the mans breath on his neck.

"Listen here. You don't know _anything_ that happened in the recent weeks before his suicide, so actually do some research before you go and write some story that you know nothing about!" His voice had started low, quiet and harsh, but it didn't take long for it to rise to a shout. He released the man and pushed him away, and walked through the parting sea of reporters, while he heard the malicious laugh of the man.

John, once again, felt all eyes on him as he walked through the police station. People behind desks stopped their typing and they're eyes followed his as he made his way to the elevator. People whispered to each other, but stopped when he walked past. _Will I ever be rid of the burden Sherlock left behind? _John wondered. He punched the button for the elevator, and rode up to the third floor.

John swaggered through the hallway, and at that moment he was too tired and too hung-over to care what they thought. He pushed through the glass door that lead to LeStrade's office, and was surprised to see that the office was empty.

He sat down in the office chair, rubbing his temples too rid himself of the headache that he had brought on himself.

A glass of water slid down the desk in front of him. "Drink this, it'll help."

John looked up to see Detective Inspector Greg LeStrade looking at him with a pity that John had seen people look at him so often with, and it disgusted him ever so slightly. He drank the water slowly, tasting the medicine that had contaminated the water.

When John put the glass down, LeStrade sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "I wondered when I might see you again. You're not drinking again, are you, John?"

"You mean _still_ drinking, don't you?" Sgt. Donovan had added her own comment, laughing a little at John's clear pain. She appeared from behind the desk, leaning against the doorframe, one of her eyebrows raised in mock amusement.

LeStrade turned his head and looked at her with a harsh glare. "Sally, get your obnoxious ass out of my office and do the paperwork for last nights arson." She met his glare, and smirked one last time at John, then sauntered out the door.

John sighed, and put his head in his hands. Words could not describe the shame he felt at Sally's comment, though he knew better then to let her get to him.

"So," John said calmly. "Arson? I thought you worked homicide?"

"I do. But I was wanted for these cases, don't know why."

"Cases?" John's voice was in surprise. "Cases? As in more than one case?"

"Yes, John. A plural. Possibly a serial arsonist. Last nights one was on Molly's flat building."

"Is she alright?"

"She is now. She was knocked unconscious. Her flat mate carried her out of the building. She's in hospital now."

"She's got a flat share? I didn't know that."

LeStrade laughed. "Neither did I. I talked to the man for a bit, seemed rather quiet. I thought that they were dating, but he coldly informed me that they weren't."

John laughed with LeStrade, glad to be rekindling their friendship that had seemed to crumble away at the edges after Sherlock's death. They went quiet, and an eerie silence filled the room.

"Have you found any patterns to the cases?" John asked.

"Not really, no. I was hoping you'd stop by and see if you could. Sherlock's deduction skills have rubbed onto you a little."

John blushed slightly, flattered at such a strong compliment. To be even praised with something remotely close to Sherlock's abilities was flattery at its finest. "That's too kind, LeStrade, you know that no one comes close to Sherlock."

"You want to know how I met him?" LeStrade asked.

"Of course."

"We were working on a serial homicide. In the same alleyway in 3 weeks, 5 people dead. All shot by a gun with markings. He had been high on god knows what, sitting in the corner. He just laughed at all of us and told us that we were all wrong. Within 3 days he found us our killer. Man by the name of Sebastian Moran. He was sent to prison for life but was released on the conditions that he joined the army. It was brilliant, this investigation. Worked it all out while he was as high as big ben."

"Brilliant." John breathed. "Absolutely amazing."

"You were always complimenting him. He liked that. You couldn't really see it, but he would always smile a little bit afterwards." LeStrade stroked the stubble at the ends of his chin. "You really turned his life around, made him happier than I had seen him since I started working with him."

"I didn't notice that."

"Of course you wouldn't. Since you'd met him you always just assumed that he was like that. You had seen the dark side, and the light side, and the, of course, sarcastic side, of Sherlock. But believe me, everything was so much worse before you came along."

John choked a little. He could feel small sobs forming at the back of his throat. "What about those serial arsons?"

LeStrade sensed his discomfort, and drew back from the desk. "There've been quite a lot, all over the London area. Mainly on flats, but on a couple business buildings."

"LeStrade! Found a pattern!" Sally Donovan's aggravating voice rang out from outside the office. LeStrade stood up and gestured for John to follow, and they hurried out the door.

The walked down the hall to Sally's cubicle, and much to John's comfort, everyone was too busy to stare. LeStrade walked ahead towards Sally's cubicle and surveyed the papers that lay scattered across the desk. Sally smirked and walked towards him, smirking.

"Oh, so you did stick around? That's funny, considering how low you went after the death of the Freak."

John didn't think. He just didn't. He didn't know why he did what he did, but he did, and that's final. He rushed up and pushed Sally against the wall. She just laughed. Cackled. Sneered. Everything she did was to tip John over the edge and it worked.

"Oh? So you're a drunk _and_ a rager?"

John spat the words at Sally, each word filled with the loathing he felt at her. "_You know what Sally?_ You don't know what you are saying! You don't know what had happened in the remaining months of his life. You don't know _anything!_" John stopped to take a breath, his eyes narrowed in a glare. Sally still smirked, though her eyes showed fear at what the former soldier might do. "He wasn't a freak. And you know what, Sally? You were right. You were bloody right."

"Oh, was I?"

"Yeah. You were right. You once told me that one day, you would be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one to put it there. He did kill someone. Himself."

Sally's glance went from amused to sad within seconds. She had realized what he said and it sunk in. She knew that it was her fault. She had cried at his funeral, hadn't she? It was her fault. She did loathe the 'Freak' but mainly because he outshone her even when stoned out of his mind.

"John! Come here!" LeStrade's voice was sharp with worry, and John took his arms off the wall and walked to him. The silence in the police department was unbearable and John could feel everyone's eyes boring holes into him.

"What is it?" John asked quietly.

"Look familiar?" LeStrade handed him a sheet of paper. A map of London. Every single house that had been the victim of the arsonist was highlighted in red. The pattern. He saw it now. And the pattern was just too familiar.

**I O U**


	5. An Authors Note

**Hi everyone! I'm sorry if you thought this was a new chapter, and I'm really sorry if I've disappointed you. I'm starting the next chapter but it's going to be a bit slow because I'm starting my fiction press as well. Thanks for the continued support :) **

**Here is a Sherlock poem someone from tumblr shared with me to make up for it**

Sweaty Palms

Phone in Hand

I hope that John will understand.

Look at me,

Watch what I do,

John, know I do it all for you.

My last words,

Final Goodbye.

John can't see the tears I cry.

My arms spread,

Your face drained,

John I heard you scream my name.

John, Was it you that screamed my name?


	6. Scars of the Web

**Hi everyone :) I know you all hate me because I haven't updated but to be honest I've been busy and I've tried. Ok, sorry, I have no excuse but I'll try to write more. Here is a 3000 word chapter for you all. It was my birthday yesterday and I spent it writing ! hope you enjoy it x**

Sherlock paced the floor of Molly's apartment. Two weeks had passed since the fire and they'd moved back in two nights ago. The floor was still burnt black and the air still smelt slightly of singed fabric and smoke. What had been damaged was replaced with insurance funds and new furniture had been placed the day they had moved in. The fire department had taken at least five hours to completely rid the building of the flames that had licked at the concrete and stone.

"Sherlock, calm down. The fire was just probably an accident." Molly sat on the sofa, nervously running her hands along the cream knit fabric of the new couch. She rested a broken ankle on the coffee table. She had curled up with tea and a bathrobe in Sherlock's ideal spot, but he had hardly complained considering it was her apartment and her spare bedroom was now his.

"But Molly, it_ wasn't_ an accident. I spoke with LeStrade and he said that they thought it was arson."

"You spoke with LeStrade? Honestly, Sherlock! You might as well just tell everyone you're alive!" Molly ran her hands through her hair, calming herself with every stroke. "First Mycroft and now LeStrade. Let's just go and ring up John then, eh?"

Sherlock stopped and fixed a piercing glare at Molly that made her shy away. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was unkind."

"It's fine." Sherlock continued to pace the floor. With every step he grew more frustrated because he couldn't figure anything out. What was happening to him? Was he becoming… ordinary? Sherlock dreaded the day where he became an unimportant Homosapien, and he dare not think of what the life would be like. Work, telly and dinner, everyday? Please, that life was not for him.

"There has got to be something wrong! What happened that night? Someone was in this apartment, in _this_ apartment, Molly, and they spoke to you before leaving. Some stranger in the apartment and then a mysterious note? What is going on?!" Sherlock felt himself lose a small amount of sanity as he tore at his hair with frustration and slight anger.

"Wait, Sherlock, what note?" Molly tried to rise off of the couch but she couldn't bear weight on her ankle.

Sherlock dug into his pocket and untangled it from keys and handed it to her. Annoyed at his failure and inability figure it out, Sherlock sat down on a lounge chair and sulked. Molly's eyes scanned every inch of the crumpled sheet of paper and gasped when she finished. She didn't dare think of what could happen. Was it her fault someone had found Sherlock? Were they going to blackmail him? This person, whoever they were, could expose Sherlock at any moment and result in the death of John, LeStrade and Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock's mouth curved into an unattractive frown, despite his appealing features, and grew even more frustrated at the only solution that he had deemed impossible. He was dead, wasn't he? But then again, Sherlock too had faked his death and wasn't Moriarty just playing a game? And Sherlock had seen the fear in Moriarty's eyes when he thought that he had lost when Sherlock knew the killers could be called off. But Moriarty still won. He still won by taking his own life, forcing Sherlock to take his. If Moriarty wasn't going to win, no one was. Hadn't this nearly driven Sherlock insane? To have to leave his only friends by committing suicide so that they could continue to live. Even in death, Moriarty was winning as Sherlock grew more lonesome and questioned his own sanity without John's companionship.

"Who do you think it is, Sherlock?" Molly was quiet as she sensed that if she said one word wrong he would lose control of the emotions that he had fought so hard to rule with an iron fist.

Sherlock sighed with defeat. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Molly said with disbelief.

"Yes, Molly, for once I don't know what is happening. There is only one possible solution and I know for a fact that the man that could have done that is dead."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"Who? Who? Molly, wasn't his death in the papers? Moriarty! That's who!"

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion. "Jim? Sherlock, his death wasn't in the papers. He hasn't been seen since the court case. Dead? Sherlock, how could he be dead?"

"He shot himself! Right after I won the game, he cut another web that ended his life and made him win the game." Sherlock spoke fiercely, spitting with every word.

Molly processed this information slower than she would have liked. Each detail seemed to run annoying slow through the cells of her brain and she worked out what Sherlock had said. "You mean to say, that Jim, Jim is dead?"

"Yes! Well… no… he should be!"

"How could you let him kill himself, Sherlock?!" Molly's voice rose to a shout as she barked her words at Sherlock.

"He was a psychopathic murderer, Molly!" Sherlock stood up and walked over to the couch where Molly sat. He leaned in so close he could see that her left eye was a bit more grey than the right, her nose had been broken once during sports, and she had a small birthmark behind her ear. "You remember that I.T. guy? The one you knew who used to work here? Moriarty killed him so he could take his job. " Molly's mouth formed an 'o' as she leaned back into the couch. Sherlock could tell that Molly wasn't processing this information well, but she needed to know. "This is what he does, Molly. Kills for fun. He lives on the thrill that the game brings." Sherlock stepped back and settled himself down on the armchair, staring out the window in hopes to clear his mind and actually deduce something.

Small whimpers turned his head away from the window. He sharply turned his head towards Molly, who had hands covering her eyes as they did the best to conceal the tears that had fell.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're crying."

"Bit obvious, Sherlock. I suspected more from you're deduction skills."

Sherlock stared intensely at her. "You're crying because you didn't know who killed the man who worked in I.T. He was important to you because he helped out a relative or friend in a tough situation. You're also crying because he was murdered by your psychopathic boyfriend to get closer to you and that I never caught the man."

"Do you enjoy this, Sherlock?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Enjoy making everyone feel like utter useless fools who are just pieces in your stupid chess game. Do you enjoy making everyone feel stupid?" Molly screamed at Sherlock, her hands balled into fists and her knuckles white. "Just because you don't get to see John doesn't mean you have to force your anger on everyone else!"

"Actually, I do. It's rather fulfilling for me to see when you realize how completely stupid you are. Now shut up, Molly, it's making for too much stupid in one room, even if I am in here."

Molly sighed and leaned back onto the couch. Sherlock stared at her in boredom. Walking towards the door, Sherlock grabbed his coat. He put it on and turned up the collar. And slammed the door on his way out.

He ran briskly down the stairs. He knew where he was going and he walked with haste into the streets of London. It was nearly Christmas, and this would be Sherlock's first Christmas without John. It pained him to think about it.

Sherlock hailed a cab. He didn't take the tube, I mean; he was Sherlock Holmes for god's sake.

When Sherlock entered Mycroft's secret sanctuary he wasn't really sure what to expect. It was a club littered with old men, bathing in utter silence and Sherlock knew not to break it. He walked through the corridor and made his way towards the final room marked PRIVATE. He didn't hesitate to open the door and didn't care to knock.

Mycroft sat behind a desk, indulging in a thick book about missiles. He kept scratching at his head, sighing, and narrowing his brow in confusion.

"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft sighed deeply, unaware of Sherlock's entrance. He looked up at Sherlock, tilting his head slightly to the left. He winced when he turned his head, and his eyes were decorated with shades of blue and black and some green lingering on the outsides. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and reached out towards Mycroft's face.

"Don't." Mycroft susurrated but Sherlock reached forward and grabbed Mycroft's chin, turning his head this way and that. A long scar formed at the back of his ear, blood dried over the deep wound and flaking away, and stretched down his neck. When Sherlock placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders, the sharp intake of breath indicated more wounds around his body. Drops of scarlet decorated the sleeves of his shirt as Mycroft attempted to pull his blazer sleeves lower. Sherlock took a step back and surveyed Mycroft. The bruising was recent, and Sherlock could tell the cut was deep from how it had not healed even slightly since.

"Who did this, Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned, pacing before the desk while folding his hands together to stop him from inspecting more as he sensed Mycroft's discomfort. Usually, Sherlock wouldn't have cared if it was out of anyone's comfort zone, particularly Mycroft's, but he sensed this subject's sensitivity and restrained himself from further deduction.

"No one of concern, Sherlock, now be off. I'm busy." Mycroft sighed and resumed reading.

"Mycroft, stand up."

Mycroft did not look up from his paperwork. "And you're still here." His voice was disappointed, no, not disappointed, annoyed with a hint of worry. From his voice, Sherlock could tell that Mycroft did not want him to investigate the wounds that lay scattered on his body.

"Get up, Mycroft. Don't make me ask again." Sherlock spoke harshly and with irritation. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his demanding brother, but did not disobey. He stood up and walked out from the desk and faced his little brother.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft said.

"Shut up."

Mycroft sighed, used to his brothers harsh spoken words and didn't care. Sherlock observed Mycroft as one might observe a lovely piece of art, or a finely carved sculpture recently put on display. Sherlock leaned in and sniffed at Mycroft's neck. _Still smell the pus and the blood, but no antiseptic. No time for proper treatment._ Sherlock traced his finger along the cut, and faded blood dotted his finger. _The bleeding has ceased slightly._

"Mycroft, where were you this morning and precisely what time did you leave your flat?"

"Sherlock, I really-"

"Answer the question, Mycroft." Sherlock said with irritation.

"I left at 7:00 am precisely." Mycroft said with an inward sigh.

"And since then 3 and a half hours have passed and during that time, most likely, when you were on your way to the car or out of the car you were stopped and that was the time in which these wounds were inflicted." Sherlock spoke fast and swiftly, not particularly caring to see if Mycroft had heard.

"Honestly, Sherlock – "

"From the state of the wounds it wasn't weapon, fist, so this person either in the beginning had no intention of hurting you or you provoked that person in a way to do such." Sherlock sped through and slowed his talking down, clearing his head. "Most likely you were mugged and you didn't give him the wallet, really, Mycroft. Always give them the wallet."

"How dumb do you think I am?" Mycroft hissed, finally allowing himself to be slightly offended by Sherlock's pitiful banter.

"Quite idiotic, actually." Sherlock spoke quietly, still observing the ever-impatient Mycroft.

"Fine, Sherlock. And I didn't provoke him. He just jumped me."

"Did he take anything?"

"No."

"Are you sure? You aren't the most observant."

"For gods sake, Sherlock. He didn't take anything!"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft curiously and got the sense that he was hiding something. Every human instinct would have told him to ignore it but Sherlock being Sherlock walked right past the stop sign of bad questions and said what he wanted to.

"I find that quite hard to believe. Even someone as simpleton as you, Mycroft, and believe me when I say that you are somewhat smarter than the rest of these idiots, didn't notice someone taking something from you."

"Sherlock! He didn't take anything!"

Sherlock stared quizzically at his brother. Usually, Sherlock would have dismissed Mycroft's yelps of denial but he sensed that even his brother would have realized if he had been mugged.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Tangible?"

"Yes!"

"Alright. Then, tell me, Mycroft, why would someone beat up a government official, and not take anything?" Sherlock continued to pace the floor in front of an ever-impatient Mycroft.

"I don't know."

"Exactly! That's the point! Why on earth would someone pretend to mug a government official if-" Sherlock stopped his sentence.

"If what, Sherlock?" Mycroft said sitting back down behind the desk, growing more irritated by the minute.

"If they weren't going to take anything." Sherlock murmured quietly, exhaling slightly.

Mycroft rubbed his brow in shame and slight embarrassment. Sherlock watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, watching his every move. Had Sherlock been paying mind to something else, he would not have seen Mycroft's hand move towards the side of the desk and push a button that Sherlock knew was a call for security.

"It was a warning, wasn't it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft scratched his head and didn't meet Sherlock's eye. "Pardon?"

"It was a warning. For me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, you're dead."

Sherlock walked towards the window that looked over the streets of London. Snow was falling gently and people were rushing to and fro and being pushed from pillar to post. "Maybe not anymore."

"I think it's best you leave, Sherlock."

"You already called security, I'm just using what time I have left before they attempt to drag me away."

Mycroft sighed, and leaned back into his chair. Sherlock glanced at his older brother and narrowed his eyes, trying to read Mycroft's expression. He sensed his embarrassment and discomfort, but mainly the sadness that was hard to make out in the flecks of his eyes.

"Mycroft, what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Does anyone know?" Sherlock's temper was rising and his voice was turning into a shout.

"They guessed. They think. Sherlock, I didn't tell them. They just said 'Just in Case.'"

Sherlock closed his eyes, absorbing the new information. "So they think I'm alive."

"Well, you are."

"No I'm not. Not really."

Everything went quiet for a moment, and for once, Mycroft considered Sherlock's suffering. John was his source of humanity, and because of him, Sherlock had lost the anchor. Mycroft spilt everything to Moriarty, and it had come round to stab his brother in the back. But Mycroft was Mycroft, and his safety was his first concern.

"I think it best if you leave, Sherlock."

"Mycroft – "

"Leave, Sherlock. We shan't be discussing this topic anymore and it would be best if you did press."

"Why?"

"Because it could be bad, potentially dangerous."

"I don't care, Mycroft!"

"Leave, Sherlock! We won't be talking about this again. If you continue in an investigation of whoever did this I will have you exposed and arrested."

Sherlock breathed heavily, nostrils flared. He was angry and shocked. He was an investigator, and his brother was stopping him from investigating. Who did Mycroft think he was, to stop Sherlock from something as big as this? Despite Sherlock's cold hard exterior and the face he put up for Mycroft, he did care.

Sherlock walked down the hallway and left the building. He didn't know where he could go and there was that ever increasing change of being noticed for Sherlock had not bothered to change his clothes or the way he looked so that he would not be recognized.

Sherlock pushed past people on his way down the blocks. He had wanted to go home. He _needed_ to go home.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was strolling down Baker Street. He was smiling, despite the fact that if anyone recognized him he would be in serious jeopardy. Sherlock stopped right outside the little sandwich shop only a few yards from 221B and laughed. Even though Mycroft had given him much to worry about and much to question, Sherlock was still happy. And that was weird for him, since it had been several months since he had been truly happy.

A sandy haired man walked down the street, looking around and shying his eyes from the sun. He was happy too, though, like Sherlock, he wasn't completely happy. And he knew he was never going to truly and fully happy again.

Sherlock saw the man and his mood soured. His euphoric mood went sad and a hole that he had desperately tried to fill with small joys was ripped open. He would have given anything to go up to him and embrace the man and scream 'I'm home!'. But it was to his sorrow that he couldn't, because doing so would result in destruction of the wall that the outside world had tried to hard to penetrate.

The man's eyes flickered over to his, and Sherlock ducked behind the door, praying that he hadn't noticed; but at the same time hoping that his recognition would give the man hope.

Sherlock looked over the edge of the doorframe and saw the man. He was staring at where Sherlock had just been. And he just had the _saddest_ eyes. It wouldn't take a genius to tell that he was near giving up. And Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than to tell him that it would be all right. Because that's what friends do.

And Sherlock knew there would be only one way to see LeStrade or Mrs. Hudson again. Or to see John. He would have to eliminate the web. At that moment, Sherlock decided that that was what he was going to do.


End file.
